


Howl at the Moon

by grumpyphoenix



Series: Howl at the Moon [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apologies, Demon!Dean, Drowley, I can't believe I am putting this on the internet, Knight of Hell, M/M, Major Character Ressurection, Multi, Non Explicit, Not really edited, after 9x23, crowstiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley likes to watch Dean be himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I assume eventually my writing will get better.;) I put it up anyhow, hey we all have a learning curve, and you can't get better alone, right?

The first week is kind of fun. Crowley sets Dean to the task of regaining his followers' attention, and this is done through astounding amounts of killing. They wade through demon blood, Dean practically bathes in it. He reflects, as he watches Dean brutally beat a demon to death with the butt of the first blade, that having him start this way is probably the best idea. He's used to killing demons. He likes killing them, and the Winchester boys have long since left all pretense of caring about their vessels behind. He keeps tabs. He knows that they just end up gutting every demon they meet instead of sending them home to Daddy with an exorcism. 

Crowley gives a mock wince, and raises an eyebrow, stepping back to avoid being splashed as Dean gets covered in an arterial spray. This is just practice. This is review. He's a much more patient instructor than Alistair, he can wait while Dean gets his feet under him again. 

After that, Crowley eases Dean into something else. His 'constituents', now pissing themselves when they see Dean come for them, are cowed enough that he can get to actually ruling hell. He starts sending Dean with the hell-hounds. After the first 'collection', Dean comes back shaking and angry, and Crowley has to disappear before he gets beheaded himself. He leaves Dean alone for a week or so, lets him drink and fuck his way through a few dives, waiting for the inevitable. When Crowley gets the call,he shows up to the ruined bloodstain of a bar and hold out his arms to Dean, asking if he needs a hug. Dean growls at him as usual, but the glint in his dark eyes and his body language says that he appreciates his presence. Crowley incinerates the place, but leaves something for Sam to find; an apology that sounds like it could almost reach being heartfelt if he tried harder. He isn't sure why he's taunting Moose now...a psychologist he pulls out of the Eternal Line of the Damned to ask suggests that perhaps he _wants_ Sam to save his brother, perhaps the human blood did something permanent to him. Crowley angrily puts him at a desk filling out paperwork in a pile that never ends. 

That's another thing, now that he's thinking about it. While Dean's never ending sarcasm stream is expected, and kind of welcome, he seems to feel that The Line is some kind of a let down. Crowley knows that in the end, Dean loved what he did for Alistair, loved the praise and the sheer artistry of his work, but he had hoped that perhaps he'd see the simple elegance in The Line. Dean just seems to feel that Hell is, thematically, not really as frightening as it should be. It bothers Crowley somehow, niggles him in the core of his soul. Dean, after all, is a true monster. Vicious and beautiful, strong and precise and nearly unstoppable. Just as when he'd become a vampire, the First Blade has freed Dean from his chains to be who he really is. To be honest, Crowley has kind of a crush. Dean's disdain hurts, it really does. 

So Crowley sends him back out with the hounds, watches him get used to the pleading, the hiding and the bargaining, watches him start to love it when his judgmental side kicks back in. Dean, shaking his head and smiling, reminding the begging, the weeping, the pathetic that they took out this loan.. he's just here to collect. Soon, he keeps the hounds at home, and lets Dean do it by himself. Eventually, he begins to realize that Dean knows Crowley is watching him, that sometimes he puts _on a show_ for Crowley, making a collection particularly horrible, or drawing it out to hear them scream, dragging their soul by the hair to his master and dumping it at his feet. Dean, a beast on a leash. Crowley leaves a card for Sam on these occasions too. 

Crowley begins going and not hiding himself. He watches Dean up the ante now that he is there in person. Putting on a 'show' for his benefit happens more often than it doesn't, and Crowley says nothing as he eviscerates his way through the newly damned. The day that Dean, covered from head to toe in gratuitous gore, walks up to Crowley and runs a bloody thumb over his lower lip, Crowley knows he's in a lot of trouble. 

He tries to ignore it, but he brings Dean with him wherever he goes now. Dean stands at his side, looming and protective while Crowley negotiates with forgotten gods, CEOs, vampires. Dean more than happily beheads one of the latter just for touching Crowley, and after that Dean's looming turns to something a little more touchy. A hand at the small of his back, or his elbow, steering him through exits as Dean's restless eyes look everywhere for a threat. They get a ... reputation. It doesn't make Dean's disposition any better, but he never actually outright vocalizes any denials. If anything, it makes him that much more handsy. It's driving Crowley mad. He goes and sits on the Desk of Never-Ending Dullness, and the psychologist there, eyes glassy with monotony suggests that perhaps Crowley needs to either draw a boundary for Dean, or make a pass that can't be misconstrued as anything else, no matter how hard Dean tries. Crowley lets him have a coffee break. The coffee is cold, but it's still not paperwork, so he takes what he can get. 

He knows this has to be handled just the right way, and so he puts himself in danger. A 'discussion' with a coven of mutinous witches goes spectacularly awry, and Dean ends up having to fight them and their summoned 'friends' off while Crowley is quite firmly stuck in a Devil's Trap. Dean drags the head witch up to Crowley eventually, a bright spark in his eye, panting with exertion and excitement, and Crowley turns his thumb down towards the floor with a mock frown on his face. After destroying the Trap, Dean gives her head to him, his body too close, vibrating. Crowley throws the head behind his shoulder, to land with a wet thump, grabs Dean's shirt collar, and kisses him hard. Eventually, Dean gives up on whatever internal struggle has kept him at bay, and he kisses Crowley back. They only don't end up fucking in the carnage around them because Crowley insists on teleporting them to a hotel room instead. 

Crowley gets summoned and imprisoned by Sam a week later.

He tries to explain to Sam, he really does. It's bad timing, and he just.. he should put Crowley back now. The more he tries to explain it to Sam, the less he listens, and he gets angry. The more he begs Sam , the angrier he gets because he realizes suddenly that he cares. He cares that Dean will come, he doesn't want Dean to kill his brother, and that makes him insanely angry. He gets so angry that he taunts Castiel when he arrives, looking exhausted and strange. He taunts him with their week long tryst, sparing no details. Dean can't keep his hands off Crowley, he can't keep his clothing on. They've spent a week alone in that hotel room, and he never once remembered Castiel, never spared a thought for him. Sam barely manages to contain the dying angel, and Crowley suspects some of what he's left with will actually scar, even with his demonic healing. They leave him alone for a very very long time in the dark. Eventually he hears the scraping noise, and Dean's silhouette is framed in the secret door frame. He stands there for a minute without speaking, breathing hard. Eventually he walks away without a word. Not long after, Sam, hair out of place with a newly blooming bruise over one eye, comes in and roughly frees Crowley, showing him out of the bunker in angry silence. Dean's traded himself to his brother for Crowley. It almost makes him laugh. Even as a demon, a murdering beast, Dean will trade his own life for the person he loves. As he's manhandled out of the bunker, he does laugh, Dean's last kiss still lingering on his lips. They will put Dean through the wringer to cure him, inject him with human blood, and make him remember. Even Crowley isn't that cruel. Not any more. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean really hates sitting in one spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd try my hand at a part 2. I don't know how prolific fic writers do this, it's nervewracking.

"You're dying, " Dean says flatly. Sam and Castiel have decided, after a lot of sotto voce arguing in the dungeon ante chamber, that they really need to put him in the chair. They cannot allow him the use of his hands, or the ability to wander about. His mind is too sharp, he's too used to escaping the inescapable. He sat in the chair sarcastically without a struggle, allowing them to chain him, arms and neck, with a few comments that made Sam roll his eyes, and Castiel go pink around the collar. So now he sits in the chair, staring at Castiel belligerently. 

Castiel looks at him quietly, murmuring,"I am glad you are not dead. Metatron.." he finds himself unable to finish the sentence, and instead just stares at Dean. He cannot stop looking, his eyes roaming over the entirety of him, feasting on the sight of him whole and unharmed. It draws a taunting kind of smirk from Dean, and a raised eyebrow. The expression is so _Crowley_ that it makes Castiel take an involuntary step backwards, his expression folding up to reveal nothing. Finally, he answers, "Yes. I am dying. My stolen grace is burning me from within. Since my own grace was consumed in the spell to close heaven, I am, as you say, _screwed_." Castiel shrugs then, as if what he is saying isn't really what matters, as if it isn't panic inducing, and yet hilariously familiar. Dean wonders if Castiel will explode again, if this time God will see fit to restore his favorite fuckup. Dean shifts in his chair, appearing bored with the subject. When the silence stretches too long, Castiel leaves, his heart heavy with Dean's indifference. Dean sits alone in the dark and quietly freaks out, hanging his head and letting silent tears soak down to his collar. 

Sam visits, trying to feel Dean's state of mind out. At first Dean merely glares at him, letting his eyes turn black for shock value. Sam though, doesn't seem as phased as Dean wants him to be, and so Dean reverts back to familiar green. Dean is rough, brutal and shares a little too much, pushing at Sam's boundaries with a sense of almost masochistic glee. When Sam lets it roll over him, Dean gets pointedly cruel, eventually driving Sam out of the dungeon. He leaves the lights on though, and Dean hates him for the kindness.

Dean sits. He tries the cuffs repeatedly, attempting to force his hands free. He tries to vanish (something he still hasn't quite gotten right when he's _not_ chained to a chair), he tries to break the chair by thrashing violently. The men of letters, may their souls stand in line for all eternity (seriously, Crowley?), have built this trap quite efficiently. Strong, solid chair, solid warding, well made cuffs and chains. He tries, just because he's bored, to summon the first blade to him. While he can feel it nearby, it doesn't budge. 

Dean gets massively bored. He sings "Henry the Eighth". "100 bottles of beer". He yells sarcastic things to Sam, even though he's sure Sam is buried in the laptop or a book far away from here. He tries to ignore the steady thrum of the mark under his skin, and the sweet siren call of fratricide. It's hard, with so little to distract him, and so he tries to think about things, like his favorite Dr. Sexy show, or the way Crowley's skin tastes. Eventually he gets lost in memories; bad ones at first, like trying hard not to kill Sam with the First Blade while he stood helpless and bound, Crowley's assessing gaze heavy on his back. He remembers the heavy feeling in his gut, like he was free-falling, when Sam declared them no longer brothers. The pain and relief of Metatron's blade. He gets lost in the memories of blood and death and adrenaline for a while, until he simply breaks down from exhaustion. 

Eventually his mind starts sifting through memories that he loves, things he keeps deep inside him to look at when the night gets too dark. Sam rescuing him from the apple tree god when he thought he'd been abandoned for good. Sam covered in rainbow glitter, Sam losing his shoe in the gutter. Sitting on the impala looking at the stars. Laughing with Castiel outside the brothel. Finding Castiel in purgatory. Cas interrogating the cat. He thinks about Castiel then, and his rage bubbles under the surface. Spitefully, he starts to pray. Cas is still an angel, after all, even if he's dying. He can hear Dean, and he has nothing else to do. 

Dean prays. At first he tries to reason with Cas, even though it's one sided. He reminds Cas that they should be thinking about saving him instead of Dean, that Cas is more important, that he's worth saving, and that Dean doesn't need it. He apologizes to Cas for not being up front about Gadreel. He apologizes for everything, things that are not his fault. After a while, he falls silent. He doesn't need to sleep, so he just sits there without moving. And then he prays again. And again, and again until he is praying every half hour, every 20 minutes, every 10 minutes. He goes through every emotion until he gets back to rage. He's comfortable with rage, he always has been. It's always been bubbling away under the surface, anger at himself for never being enough, anger at his father for being a dick, anger at his brother for never sticking around. So he goes with it, viciously cataloging Castiel's faults, reminiscing about every time he's let them down, resurrecting his grudge and letting it air out. Eventually he gets quiet, leaving Cas with a gruff "I'm sorry, man." 

After an ass numbing long time, Sam returns, and it makes his blood run cold. As Sam turns away from him a little to prepare, Dean tries to speak to him. "Sam." His voice is rough with disuse and fear. "Don't. " Sam turns all the way around, one eyebrow arched, holding one of their giant syringes filled with blood. "Don't.. what, Dean?" Dean glares at his brother, fear turning him into a pit bull. He says everything he can think of. True things, horrible things. He tries to attack Sam when he gets close, but the bindings are way too tight. Sam, undeterred, sinks the syringe into a thrashing Dean, and pushes the plunger. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel searches for Cain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Apologies for the length of time. Insecurity and house hunting took its toll. Never admit to people that you write fanfiction, I have learned. Though, I am bolstered by the amazing reviews, and I will finish this out, and then write more._  
>  **Edit** : I changed it a bit to fix the inconsistent tenses, and the transition from past to present tense. Urgh..

Castiel is supposed to be looking for Cain. To be honest, they'd summoned Crowley early; his constant taunting had forced their hand. He and Sam had been brainstorming and researching, and talking, endlessly talking about how to save Dean. Sam felt so guilty that for a time Castiel had been worried for his health. He had stopped sleeping or eating for a time, and only a complete collapse and Castiel's angry intervention had managed to convince him to take care of himself. In the end, it was the usual witches brew of half-assed planning and pigheaded action based on a ghost of an idea that got Castiel moving and out of the bunker. Find Cain, get him to take the mark back. Castiel had tried to get Sam to wait on the cure, but he wouldn't budge. Eight hours and then Dean would be back on the ticking clock as the mark ate him from the inside out. So Castiel went. He was accustomed to uselessly searching for someone he'd never find.

Castiel is not looking for Cain. He is on the floor of a hotel room with his head in his hands, weeping. 

Dean was relentless. The first prayer had taken him by surprise, but it had been pleasant. Dean's voice in his head was familiar, and it filled him with warmth. Dean was concerned about him. Then he apologized, and he wouldn't stop, and Castiel pulled the car into a run down motel to listen. Then there was silence.

After the silence, came the deluge. At first it was almost rambling, as if Dean was simply bored and passing the time by talking to Castiel. He felt wistful, and wished that he could talk back to Dean. 

Castiel was in the shower. He has been needing more and more human things since his grace started to fail, and while it's just a reminder of his limited time, he kind of likes it. So he showered. Dean, who had been quiet for about a half hour, started talking to him again, but this time his voice was the whisper of the serpent. Velvety soft, slinky murmuring, Dean whispered into Castiel's mind. Dean told him how soft he imagines Castiel's lips to be, the obsession he has with his neck, just under his jaw. Dean wondered, his voice hypnotic, how Castiel looks as he comes. Does he throw his head back and expose that lovely neck.. would he let Dean bite it? Would he let Dean leave a mark there? 

Castiel, eyes wide like prey, shivered under the steaming water until Dean allowed him to leave by quieting himself. He fled the room and wrapped himself in a towel and the blanket off the bed, shaking and unable to think.

Dean spoke to Castiel again just when he had begun to control himself. He did it again, and again, talking Castiel into a state of hyper arousal, leaving him in near hysterics.

Then Dean began to get angry, and he prayed more often. He cursed Castiel's Father, asking why he was even born. Dean wept and made Castiel long to see him, to push back the self loathing and show Dean what he sees. 

Dean turned the hatred outwards, and began to pick Castiel apart. He turned Castiel's mistakes around in his hands and lifted them to the light to be examined. His prayers came in an almost constant stream, and each one filled with barbs and hooks, tearing Castiel apart with calculated efficiency. Each one of these prayers was offered in the same seductive tone that pinned him in the shower in what seems like a lifetime ago.

And that is why he is not searching, not using the laptop Sam gave him while he has down time in the motel. He is incapable of moving.

Castiel slides off the bed and lands on his knees. He tries to block the prayers out, but he cannot extend that kind of energy. He curls into a ball with his forehead pressed to the floor and begs. He begs his Father for help, he begs Dean to be quiet. Rocking back and forth he considers ripping his grace out, considers trying to end himself, anything to make Dean _stop_. 

And then it does. Dean simply stops with a gruff inadequate apology, and there is just silence. The tears still come, a torrent of despair and loss. When they stop, he slips into a deep and dreamless sleep, slumping onto his side on the floor. The next morning he awakens freezing and naked and so very exhausted. 

Castiel picks himself up. Castiel silently dresses himself. 

Castiel searches for Cain. 

He cannot let Dean down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel really doesn't understand cars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same caveats apply: I tend to write something, edit it a little bit, and then fling it online before I can chicken out. Eventually I'll turn into a real writer, nut up and do it right. Until then, I'm having fun.  
> Also, this is.. like, a .. prelude to another fic that keeps smacking me in the head every time I drive at night.

Castiel is by the side of the road. The car had been making weird noises, and so he pulled over. For a time, he had regarded the inside of the engine blankly, and then he called Sam. Sam told him what to do, but he was unable to do so.. the road was vast, but empty, and while he admired his Father's creation, he did wonder why there was so many places that are just so _inconveniently_ uninhabited. 

He sits now, waiting for someone to pick him up. Not Sam, Sam could not be spared, because they both knew if he left the bunker that Dean would escape. Sam had decided to string him along instead of doing the actual cure all at once. He kept injecting Dean with blood regardless, even though he knew it was making him miserable. The brothers, Castiel mused, seemed to enjoy inflicting emotional pain on one another. There was nothing practical about what Sam was doing, as far as Castiel could see, and the prayers that filtered into Castiel's consciousness after each injection were riddled with self loathing, and heartfelt wishes for his own destruction. Castiel isn't sure how many more tearful apologies or begging for his presence he can take. Never mind that when the effects wear off, that he often follows this with something deeply cutting, and always original. If Castiel was not so far from the bunker, he might well snap and put the insufferable boy down before he could hurt Dean further. Sam refused to stop, no matter how many times Castiel asks, and has almost gotten to the point of not answering the phone. 

For now, though, it's quiet. Castiel sits in the car with the door open, and looks over research, pores over maps, tries to get his head in the game. His phone rings. Castiel fumbles it out of his pocket, and peers at the unfamiliar number on the screen. Cautiously he flips it open and says, "Hello." 

A perky, chipper female on the other end says, "Castiel. My name is Becky Rosen." and then she waits, the silence echoing oddly in Castiel's ears. Then it hits him like thunder, the blinding, beautiful, voice of God, searing her name in his head, burned like a brand. He starts gasping and slides out of the car, falling to his knees on the pavement. Names... names.. modern names.. new names.. "Chuck Shurley. Kevin Tran. Luigi Ponzi. Justin Hunt.Aaron Webber. Dennis Adams." he talks faster, his eyes lighting blue with Grace,"Maria. Krista. Sven. _BECKY ROSEN_ " he screams her name and drops the phone, his body suffused with Holy Light. 

Ten minutes later, a long silver sedan pulls up, and a gangly, friendly looking werewolf peers out through the driver's side window. He starts talking about Sam having sent him and Castiel, Angel of the Lord, brimming with extra power and love, presses two fingers to his head. "Garth Fitzgerald IV, go and sin no more." as Garth starts shaking, Castiel gets into the passenger seat, and waits for him to finish changing. Idly, he wonders if perhaps Sam would have preferred he ask his friend if he wanted to continue being a werewolf first.

"Bring me to this address, " he says, passing a piece of paper to the stunned and wordless Garth. His Grace, infused with power and purpose as it is, will still run out, and he prefers not to use it with travel until he has to. Besides which, Becky Rosen is shielded very well, and he would prefer to have a Hunter with him when he gets there. To leave with her when he goes after Caine, if nothing else.

As Garth drives, his face covered in tears, Castiel uses some more of his carefully hoarded power, and extends his grace to shut out Dean. Then he calls Sam. 

This does not go as well as he would have hoped. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam snaps.

It isn't like he wants to hurt Dean. Too much, anyway. He just.. they can't turn him back into a human, at this point, because then the mark would just start to kill him again, and he can't let him rot in the dungeon. If he leaves Dean in there at full emotional strength, then he will have to deal with his brother breaking out sooner rather than later. 

The thing that Sam can't admit is that he enjoys the way that Dean opens up after he gets an injection. He softens around the edges, and they talk. They spent a night reminiscing about the best parts of their childhood, which is always a conversation tinged with the underlying bitter taste of all the things that never were. They spent time just talking about anything, everything. They spent more time being brothers in the last few days than in the last couple of years. Sam didn't realize at first that his brother was holding a megaton of despair and fear back, but he is still kicking himself, because of course he was. After the third night in a row of just sitting and talking to Dean, Cas called Sam at 3AM to ask him to cut it out.

Sam considered it, but eventually thought that maybe the angel could suck it up. Dean was pliable this way, and if Sam had him addicted to his blood, he had a tether on his brother that would make him think twice about escaping. He wasn't stupid; Sam knew that he enjoyed this a little too much, and that he probably could use someone else there to give him a reality check. There just wasn't anyone left. 

In the end, that was the thing that clinched it. There was no one left. The silence in the bunker mocked him with the memories of voices. Kevin and his vital, amazing presence. Bobby's voice over the phone, aggravated, but gruffly fond. Even Charlie's occasional visits; each one a burst of sunshine in their lives. Garth, though he was not dead, was definitely *gone*. They'd only had each other, and Sam had fucked that so hard that Dean had let himself fall into Crowley's orbit, just for the sound of someone's voice that wasn't impersonal and edged with disdain. 

After a while, Sam had stopped being quite so angry, but the damage had been done, and he just couldn't figure out how to approach Dean and really talk. Dean had shuttered himself inside his own head, despite stubbornly following his brother like a kicked dog. He couldn't even register the change in Sam, his tightly controlled despair overriding most of his sense and intuition. Figures that it would take being on the actual edge of death for them both to come clean. 

 

So, when Castiel called Sam over and over to ask him to stop, even actually begging him.. well, Sam just couldn't. Not even for Cas. Fuck Cas, anyway. Where was *he* while his brother slowly killed himself, anyhow? Sam was enjoying having his brother back in small doses. While it was kind of fucked up that he would then pray for a release from his pain, if that was how it had to be.. well, yeah, fuck Castiel, fuck the angels, fuck Heaven and all its hosts. 

He reiterated than when goddamned Castiel called about Becky. Because of course it would figure that God, that dick, would choose to prove Metatron a liar, and make another prophet out of the one person on this earth Sam would never even consider talking to again.

After Becky had signed the annulment, they'd taken off, and there was an uneasy balance between Dean ribbing him over the whole thing, and giving Sam some space. Becky had been a little less than truthful when she told Dean that they'd waited to consummate, because she'd gone off the deep end, but she wasn't an idiot. So the fiction gave him some room to laugh things off with Dean, but he remembered it. The devil (ha) of the thing is that when he remembers it, he remembers it in a pink, heart covered haze, and it isn't unpleasant. He does sometimes wake up gasping for air from a nightmare of being suffocated in pink gauze that smells like her hair, and then he can't get it out of his nostrils the rest of the night. Those nights, he ends up drinking a little more than he should while he nurses this gaping, lonely hole in his heart and an impotent rage. He drinks, and hates himself because he is missing someone he hates, someone who violated him so thoroughly. Those nights, though, he wants her, his body craves her, and he wants to die. Charlie mentioning her name again, publishing Chuck's old notes, or whatever.. it had brought everything back up, and then Dean's admission later.. he's just so tired of being used. His body, his *mind*, when will it be his own?

So when Castiel called and told him, he just started laughing. He laughed until he started weeping, and then he screamed incoherently into the phone, and threw it. Then he stalked into the dungeon, beat his brother bloody, and left him in the darkness. 

Deep into the night, Sam drove, directionless and alone. No music on the radio, his eyes fixed on the road, ignoring the signs. When the road became too blurry with tears and lack of sleep, he pulled over and lay his head down on the leather seats, Dean's coat as his blanket. That night, he dreamed of being suffocated in a blanket of warmth that smelled like Dean after a hunt; sweat and satisfaction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has too much free time on his hands.

When Sam comes home, he finds blood. So much blood. It is painted on a sigil on the outside door, which Sam recognizes as an angel ward, hilarious. There's pools of it on the floor in side the door, on the stairs leading down. He finds the tables below overthrown, Sam's carefully arranged research coated with it, sticky and clotting, and so very cold. Dean's left him a trail along the walls, pools on the floors. 

The first corpse shouldn't have taken him by surprise. In the shower, an eviscerated girl. Sam knows with a horrible certainty, that all of her blood is NOT on the floor in this room, or even covering the ancient books and meticulously pinned maps in the other. He knows, because in the next shower is another one. This one has had her neck slit, and she is, oh god, she's naked. Dean's taken some of it, he thinks absently as he moves through the bunker. Dean's taken some of the blood for himself, like Crowley, and so they had to be. They weren't. They weren't demons. He left Dean here so long. He had so much time..

He walks slowly, following the trail, and the knife is out. He stalks with it, trying not to throw up. Of course it leads to the dungeon. Which is open.

He finds Crowley there. Sam forgets to be careful, forgets to hold it together. It takes about an hour for him to manage enough cut Crowley down. 

Eventually he can dial the phone again. 

He calls Castiel, and Becky answers. 

Sam does not hang up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people are reading this, because the Kudos keep going up. Please, for the love of Chuck, leave some kind of a comment. I am massively insecure. I know that's not your problem; but I'd get all snuggly inside. Also,I didn't update the tags,so don't go worrying for Crowley's pretty hide.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Bought a house. Went to Gencon. Moving. Still moving. Still. Fucking.Moving._  
>  Eventually I'll stop moving, and be moved.  
> Then I will write like a fiend. Until then, this is your lot.;) It's really rough and I'll likely pop by to rework it later.  
> Thank you guys, for being so constant and reading, even though this is sporadic. You all rule the school.

He still feels pleasure in driving. It has a different feel to it, though. It is about speed, and the power of the engine. It had always been, really, except now the constant sense of being surrounded by safety and family is missing; hitting the road had always been about family tradition. He, Sam and Dad were nomads, and it just made him feel better, like he could leave all his problems behind him; in front of him was a never ending black trail of possibility. 

So very freeing, being able to drive Baby and not really giving a shit about any of that. He still loves the car, because it's sexy, fast and strong. He feels possessive about her, the same way he does about Cas and that waitress he keeps dropping by to see in the ass crack of Alabama. Hell, if Benny had been around, Dean would have cut a swath through half the southern states with the man by now. He feels possessive about Crowley too, but that is beginning to become obsession, and he refuses to acknowledge it. Now, when he leaves the waitress's shit hole of an apartment in the dim light of dawn to find Baby with a significant dent in the parking lot, he doesn't lose his shit. He would, he supposes, if he'd been there. As it is, he's feeling more or less mellow, and just drives away. 

As he drives, he considers his next move. Killing those girls had been fun, especially after sitting and wallowing in his own misery for days. Imagining Sam's face when he finds them is even better, and he loses a few miles to considering just how fucked up his brother will be by it.

The driving is good for his brain. He's not bogged down by as much sentiment as he used to be, and so his mind is able to put pieces together better. He's always been good at puzzle solving and strategy, but now if he's given time to just let his mind work, he's capable of so much more. What would make everything better, he muses as he blows by a speed trap, is if Sammy were to just.. lose his soul. Once Crowley recovers from their hour of fun together, he thinks that he'll ask how to pull that feat off. 

The cop is asking him to leave the car, and he does it mechanically, thinking about just what that would mean, he and Sam together like this. Sammy was practically unstoppable when he didn't have his soul. More interesting, more fun. Distantly, he realizes the cop's seen the First Blade in the passenger seat, still covered in gore. A smile plays on his face. Looks like Crowley's recovered early. Dean knows he'd carefully placed that in the trunk prior to going in to see the woman. He allows himself to be handcuffed, enjoying the roughness, being pressed against the car. Crowley, he knows, has been aware of how much he actually enjoys being restrained by someone strong, and this officer is exactly the type that had always given Dean a secret thrill while being handcuffed. He considers allowing himself to be arrested, not playing into Crowley's little game, making him work to get Dean out of jail. 

Just before he gets to the cop's car, Dean decides that he just doesn't want to bother with it, and drags his feet. The cop barks orders at him, and attempts to manhandle him. Dean has already slipped the cuffs and gets the drop on him. A quick scuffle later, and Dean has the cop pressed against the car in his own handcuffs. He grinds his crotch against the cop's ass slowly, relishing his fear, and the sheer perfection that is the man's well sculpted ass . When he attempts to escape, Dean bends his arms back hard enough to pull a panicked scream of pain from himd, and growls into the man's ear that if he wants to stay breathing, that he had best just hold still. 

Dean whirls around at a touch on his shoulder a few minutes later. He's panting and his eyes are bright and black. Behind him, the cop slides to the ground weeping. Crowley smiles at Dean, all teeth. Time between them seems to suspend as they regard each other, and then Dean decides to fuck instead of murder, and takes Crowley against the cop's car, the two of them standing over his prone unconscious body. 

Later, he drives Crowley away in Baby, mellow again. He has always liked having a partner in the front seat. At least some things haven't changed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam travels to see the prophet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 7 days left to finish. I'm not sure I could do that once the season starts. So.. I'm strapping myself in, and doing it.

Sam ends up needing a vehicle from the bunker's garage, because when he gets outside the Impala is gone. It makes his blood run cold; where exactly had Dean _been_ while Sam was freaking out about the bodies he'd left behind? He wants to feel self contained, hurtling along the road like he was flying; vulnerable and cold. He takes Gilda's motorcycle. It's old, but he discovers that it fast as hell and amazing to drive.

He stops at Cas' car, which is still broken down by the side of the road. He tinkers with it. He goes back to a shop he'd passed to get parts. He fixes it, and then leaves it sitting where it was. He isn't sure why he'd fixed it, except that it fixing something had made him feel accomplished and effective for a second. The smile on his face startles and unsettles him, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood because he is suddenly reminded of the way Dean stopped smiling. He'd tried for a while, to get Sam to forgive him, and then when it wasn't happening he just .. stopped. Sam doesn't deserve a smile. Sam gets back on the bike, his body feeling old and painful suddenly. Time to stop procrastinating, he thinks to himself. Time to get on with it.

Eventually Sam pulls the motorcycle up to the cabin. He sits on the stilled vehicle, staring at the building and feeling the warmth from the engine. He makes a vicious sound in the back of this throat at his body, at the beginning of an erection warring with the edges of a panic attack. Clenching his fists, he dismounts the machine like a cowboy getting off his horse. He ambles up to the front door and hesitates there, but is spared the need to lift his hand and knock as it is violently thrown open, and Becky's cheerful face beams up at him. 

"SAM! It's so great to see you. I mean, I knew I was going to, because I have these dreams, but it's not the same, and!!" Becky ends with a squealing noise, and hugs him. He rigidly pats her back, even as he's moving away. Giving her his best FBI smile, he asks "Well, Becky? Can I come in?"

Becky leads him into the cabin. Sam follows, grinding his jaw into his smile. This fucking cabin. It smells the same. His memories are hazy, but the smells, he remembers them with perfect clarity. This.. weird mixture of cleaner and firewood and Becky's perfume. All of a sudden, he just can't take it, any of it. Dean becoming a demon, the blood, the memories, his aching crotch. Becky is walking in front of him, and the place has been converted into .. some kind of headquarters. There are dry erase boards, and white boxes filled with papers, but he can't parse it. His head is spinning, and Becky will not shut the fuck up. She's smiling.. _smiling_ and bouncing on her toes, and her _fucking voice_. The room spins, and he tries to run, but somehow Garth materializes behind him, and he's talking, but it sounds like gibberish, and he's in the way, and Sam can't get _out_ , because .. he can't find the door.. so he throws up on Garth, and then passes out, hitting the floor hard. 

Coming to is like clawing his way out of a deep well. People are talking around him, but he can't seem to manage his eyes. Sam's pretty sure that most of this is a dream anyway, and waking up means facing the world, so he slips back down. He lets go, and slides down into the hole, hoping for darkness. Someone is shaking him, though, and calling his name. 

Groaning, he peels his eyes open. "Cas. Cas, I'm awake, stop. " Sam slaps at the offending hand, which turns out to belong to Garth instead, and sits up. The twinges in his body tell him he hit a side table on his way down. He's on a couch, he discovers. His shoes have been removed, and his coat. He's covered with a plaid blanket, that he immediately flings off him as if it was a huge spider sitting on his chest. He can smell chicken soup cooking in the background. 

"Hey, Sam " Garth's cheerful voice greets him. Garth pulls up a folding chair to sit in front of him. "You've been asleep for a few hours now. Seems like you haven't been taking care of yourself!" Garth's finger wags at Sam. "Gotta hydrate, man. You're lucky you didn't crash on the way here. " 

Sam scrubs his hands over his face. "Did I throw up on you?" 

Garth winces. "Yeah, that was not great. But, " Garth puts the back of his hand on Sam's forehead, "You seem much better now, amigo. Becky there is cookin' you up some soup! " Garth smiles over at her. "She's pretty awesome. And Sam! Castiel healed me! No more howling at the moon for me. Which, I guess my lady will not take too well... but.. " he trails off with a happy shrug. 

Sam struggles to take this in. "Castiel did.. what?" He looks up, searching the room, finding the angel watching him quietly from a corner. "Cas? How?"

Castiel walks into the room a bit more, and it seems to Sam that the angel sucks the light from the lamp into himself, like he's harder to see. Or maybe that he's so bright that he has to squint. Sam honestly can't tell. "Yes, Sam. My father sent me a message, and gave me some more time. I was able to heal Garth of his affliction, but the power is still not mine. We should hurry, as I do not believe I will last. This Grace is fading faster than before." He smiles weakly at Sam, who nods, and struggles to his feet, trying to ignore the dizziness. 

Just in time for Becky to bring a steaming bowl of soup and a bottle of water to the table on the other side of the room, near the pile of boxes and the white boards. 

Sam eats, warily, and listens as Becky explains. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becky has dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes will be fixd.

High school sucked. Everyone knows that, of course. Common knowledge, that. High school is a giant bag of dicks.. a hormonal cesspool that forms itself into hierarchies. Pretty girls, strong boys, smart kids, whatever. Either you were a queen or a loser, but no matter what, everyone went someplace. 

Not so much for Becky. To plain to be pretty, or even ugly. Too average to be smart, too smart to be stupid, too normal to be weird, and too off to be straight laced. Becky wasn't a nerd, not really. She wasn't bullied too much or anything, just enough to make her sad, but not really _enough_ either. Being truly harassed at least would have meant someone noticed her. She slid through high school like the lyrics in an old song; the melody seems familiar, but no one can quite remember the words. 

The thing about being invisible was: you could watch. Becky discovered it like a super power.. sitting at lunch with her apple, watching the lacrosse captain and his best friend talking. She knew everything about him. Tall, strong, smart, amazing. She knew his favorite color, and his favorite song. She knew that he would, like clockwork, get an awful cold when the seasons changed, and she knew that his best friend would ditch school to stay at his house. She collated the information on him, gathering it to her bosom and getting lost in it. It was really her imagination that did her in.. her imagination, and her mouth. She was _enthusiastic_ , she was romantic, and in her head, she was his true love. The result was.. predictible, and kind of became a constant through high school and honestly, the rest of her life. 

Fiction, though.. first it was Star Trek, and then Doctor Who. She would watch the shows, and read the books, and the fanfiction, and she would collate. She knew everything about the characters: their favorite colors and food and music, where they grew up, about their families, their love lives, and the inconsistencies in the canon. She never really clicked with people until she discovered the internet.. tons of frustrated fans writing fiction and talking about her favorite characters. Then Carver started writing those books about the brothers, and her heart was forever changed. Her website was _the_ place to go for Supernatural fan-fiction and discussion. She was a big fish in an extremely little pond, everyone knew who she was. The reality of it was, the moment she read the first sentence of the first book, she got chills that ran up and down her body. She read the words that came out of Dean's mouth.. but she didn't need to. All her life she'd had a reoccurring dream.. about a tall boy, with long goofy hair, and beautiful eyes, and his brother. She couldn't ever really _see_ his brother, just hear his voice. So she read, " Dad went on a hunting trip" , closed her eyes, and said, "And he hasn't been home in a few days. " 

She dreamed. It was like this dream, once stuck in a single moment, was catapulted into overdrive. As she slept, Carver wrote. He left things out, weird things.. like their last names. Or Sam drinking blood. She saw his face every night in her dreams, and wrote it out in fan-fiction every day that she could. It didn't stop her from writing her own take on the characters once and a while, slowly going a little more mad. She didn't know how she was dreaming these characters, but sometimes she thought they were real, and sometimes she thought that maybe Carver was her soul mate, and she could read his mind. She would write her own takes on the characters sometimes, trying to flesh them out and get them to face their inner issues; like the fact that Sam and his brother were really hot for each other. Soon she started dreaming about other things, but that were somehow related to Sam. Like Carver himself. Well... Chuck, she supposed, though she liked the name "Carver" better. She dreamed him, but the dreams were always suffused with bright light, washing his face out a little. It was the same oddness that always happened around Dean, or Castiel, when she dreamed about him. 

After the apocalypse didn't happen, things went a little haywire on the boards, and her dreams went away. She drifted around, not sure what to do with herself, and missing Sam's constant presence in her dreams. She decided to make sure that they had actually been real, and went to Vegas with a small love potion, just in case. Just to break the ice. She went, she will admit, a little insane for a while. After Sam made her sign the annulment, Becky went to find Chuck, and found the house empty. After such a long time, it was weird to find it like this.. the electricity was off, but no one had reclaimed it. She sat in candlelight and went through everything in his house. 

It took a long time. She carted it all home in a U-Haul, once she had separated the chaff from the important. She went at the project with a single mindedness that utterly destroyed the rest of her life. She moved into her family's cabin and lived like a hobo. No electricity, barely any food. Her obsession was manic, complete and consuming. Within a year she'd had everything sorted. Her dreams returned, but they were strangely orderly. The light around Dean was gone. That was sad, because she really didn't mind NOT seeing Dean completely in her dreams, thank you. She knew, now, what the dreams meant, and she began to feel special again. A big fish in a little pond. A secretly big fish. She started writing, and her writing was..well.. not better, but different. She was able to mimic Chuck's style perfectly, and so she did. First, she put down all of the dreams he'd had that he hadn't written. She also collated a 'how to hunt' manual in his style, realizing that the cat was out of the bag in the hunting community about the books. She wrote, and wrote. Her dreams almost seemed to be in other people's voices. For instance, Kevin Tran once gave a long dialog in her dreams about the Angel tablet. She wrote down what she could when she awoke, but did not print it on the web. 

She started to understand why Chuck would leave things out. She told it like it was with Sam rejecting Dean, but that did not sit well with her readers, so she left out how bad it got.. Dean's suicidal feelings, and Sam taking off to hunt on his own. She _certainly_ has not been writing about what he and Crowley get up to...and she'd like it if God would maybe excise that from her head. 

So, she collates, in Kevin's voice, in Chuck's voice, in the voices of long dead prophets speaking Aramaic (which she can't speak, but can understand). She writes what she sees on her own, and she knows now how she can help Sam. She knows where to find Caine. 

She isn't prepared for the angel. Castiel is a little intense, and he doesn't seem to approve of her, which she finds hysterical. She discovered that she was on her own a while back when she got attacked during a mugging, and refused to give her bag to the mugger. It was filled with new writing, and she'd never get it back otherwise. He'd hurt her pretty badly, and no archangel appeared to save her. Lonely times, here on earth, she'd mused while being stitched up. Now she had a long scar across her face, which on her good days she flaunts. She wears a leather jacket over her sweater vest, and feels like a badass servant of a lost God. So, suddenly being faced with an actual angel is intimidating and kind of funny, because he has an almost permanent look of sarcasm etched into the lines of his face. When Sam throws up on Garth and then faints, Castiel catches him, and .. well. He glares at her. Which, you know, is really uncalled for. I mean, come on. Castiel keeps beating his boyfriend up.. what's a little drugging and bondage compared to betrayal and almost face stabbing. 

Right. Not your boyfriend. Not your husband. Must remember. 

When Sam is up again and refusing to eat the food she's made for him(Okay, stings, but that's fair), she tells everyone the problem. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write! Write like the wind!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becky explains the problem. Castiel finds a solution.

The problem was...  
The problem... 

Becky fidgets with the pens on the white board. 

"I.. the problem is.." She can't look at Sam. She looks at his bowl of uneaten soup, and then takes a deep breath to steady herself. 

"The problem is, that I .. I may have.. stretched the truth. " Becky holds out a hand as Sam stands up in a swift angry motion, scraping the chair against the floor. "Stop, he's.. Caine is DEAD! He's Dead!" She shrinks back against the whiteboard away from Sam's angry approach. Castiel moves in front of her, one placid hand up. 

"Don't.. there's still a way. It's.. there's a spell. If you get Dean, it can take the mark. Right off. You just have to do it exactly right. " Becky squeaked in her haste to get everything out all at once. 

"See, the only thing keeping Caine alive was the mark and the weapon, at this point. Once Dean took it, and severed the connection to the weapon.. it was just a matter of months before Caine just.. " she shrugs. " I mean, I don't know where he went. I mean, he might be in hell, but no demons know about it if he is. " 

"He is not in heaven," Interrupts Castiel, shifting his stance once he's observed that Sam has stopped moving. "I looked. I think perhaps he just.. ceased to exist. Or perhaps he is with God. " 

"I saw him die, is the point, " Becky picks back up. "In a dream. I watched him fall, and he was dead. Sure as anything, just dead. So you have to get Dean, and do this ritual, after he's human again, and the mark will leave him. " she holds out a notebook, towards Sam. It trembles there for a long moment before he reaches forward under Castiel's watchful eye, and snatches it up. 

Sam picks up the bottle of water, makes sure the seal is intact as he moves back to the couch to look through the notebook. He sits, and begins to leave through, instantly engrossed. Garth lets out a breath. 

"Whew! Well, if he isn't eating that.. " Garth sits and starts eating the soup with a smile. 

Time goes on, and Castiel watches as Becky gets more and more nervous. Sam and Garth make plans on the couch. It seems to calm Sam to have another hunter there, and Garth is stable and happy; Sam has not been around anyone like that in a long time. So Castiel stays out of it and waits for orders. Still.. the prophet is .. cagey. Yes, cagey, that was the word. So he is able to catch her glance as she heads into her bedroom, and follows her. Once there, she closes the french doors carefully. 

"Castiel.. that mark isn't going to just disappear. It.. it will have to go someplace, it's permanent, and Sam.." Becky looks at Castiel helplessly. "Look, it has to go to someone who's worthy. A male, with," Becky laughs, a sound laced with a disturbing amount of desperation, "Sibling problems. It will just move. The spell will pry it loose, but it has to _go_ someplace. " She chews on her nail. Castiel notices that they are all ragged. She has been sitting on this part of the problem for a long time. 

Castiel places his hand over hers. "I understand." he smiles at her. He does understand, and he is so tired. He can give this one last thing for Dean. He can give him a life with Sam. 

Castiel leaves her there, simply because he cannot stand to hear her tears. "Sam, " he grates out, "It is time. If we are to do this when I have any power left, it is now. " 

Sam and Garth stand. Castiel can see that Sam looks ready, stronger and more sure for the plan. Good. Sam can keep Dean together later, through anything. 

It is raining when Sam and Garth drop Castiel off at his car. They head to gather the first of many ingredients, and Castiel finds his phone where it is wedged beneath the seat. If they are going to release Dean from this, they need one more person to help. 

Castiel sits in the dark with the deluge pouring around the car. The blue light of the phone catches on his eyes as he hears the familiar voice ooze out over the microphone.  
"Castiel," he drags the syllables of his name out like a kiss.   
" Hello, Love. To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
Castiel closes his eyes. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean reconcile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

Dean is in a heavy chair, bound to it by the shackles from the bunker. They aren't in the bunker, they are in a barn, dark except for the handheld lantern set next to Dean's chair. Castiel is here, watching him wake up, looking on quietly as Dean snarls at him, trying to get the fuck out of this again. Dean yells for Sam, challenges him to come out and face this himself, but Castiel only shakes his head, frowning. "Sam is not here, Dean. It is just me, this time. " He sheds his coat, then his tie. He unbuttons each arm, and rolls the sleeves up to the elbow. Then he stands and regards Dean, lost in thought. 

The math was precise. It had to be perfect, or this whole thing wouldn't work. Castiel kneels down next to Dean on the chair, bound and glaring at him. With his grace, he adds more blood volume to his vessel. It makes him a little woozy, but it would be remedied soon. He looks Dean in the eyes, and almost ritualistically, puts a small mirror on the bound man's knees. 

"If you move, " he says quietly, "I will get hurt. " 

When Castiel retrieves a vial and a small knife, Dean spreads his legs, dropping the mirror to the floor. "Hell, no. " he growls. "No. What. Are you. Doing." 

Castiel sighs, and retrieves the glass, setting it on the floor. Mostly by touch and instinct, with a few glances at his reflection, he makes a small incision. His grace comes out, slowly, painfully. Castiel is able to catch it in the vial, even though he is shaking like a leaf. He can hear Dean thrashing on his chair, and gives a small smile. Dean does give a damn. That will make this go.. better than he'd thought. Easier, maybe. 

He doesn't have much time, he knows that. Shakily, still on his knees, Castiel ties off his arm and takes out some of his blood. When he raises his eyes, Dean meets his gaze with a look of dawning horror. 

Castiel smiles again, and carefully stands. "I see you've figured some of this out. Now.. Dean, hold still. You can't thrash like that or we will both get hurt. That's it. " Castiel forces Dean's head to the side, and the plunger goes down to the sound of Dean grinding his teeth. He pauses a moment, and kisses the spot where the needle went in. Why shouldn't he? He has nothing left to lose. 

Dean sits, panting, and Castiel sits in front of him, on the floor, one cheek resting on Dean's knee. "I figured some things out, you see. Important things.. _fundamental_ things. " 

Castiel goes silent for a long time, and Dean finally breaks. "What! What, Cas? What is so fundamental?" His tone is bruising; snide and sarcastic. 

"Maybe I'll tell you, some day. " Castiel pats Deans thigh, and doesn't miss the way Dean shudders. 

For the first few hours, Dean and Cas are mostly silent, punctuated by Dean being as rude as he can. Towards the end of each hour, when the blood is wearing off, he tests the shackles and his chair. He tries harder to get away from Castiel when he comes near him with the vial of blood, nearly biting him. Eventually, though, Castiel wrestles him into submission, and they sit in near silence for the rest of it. Castiel sits at Dean's feet, head on Dean's knee, and lets him process what he's feeling. The way Dean looked at the syringe the second time was needy and desperate, but that it was Castiel's blood made him fight the process. Eventually, towards the end of the fourth hour,Dean clears his throat and asks him to stop. 

"Cas.. this is ridiculous, and it's not going to work. Sammy figured it out, just leave me alone. Cas, c'mon. Let me go." Dean's voice drops in tone, reminding Castiel rather forcefully of shivering in the hot shower. His hand clenches convulsively. 

"Let me go, Cas. I can be grateful. Let me show you. Cassstieel......" Castiel looks up into Dean's face and locks eyes with him. Carefully and deliberately, he climbs up, straddling Dean's lap, and grinds his way down until he's sitting. Dean's eyes flash black and hold, his hips rocking upwards slightly, making Castiel's ragged breath catch. 

Castiel's head drifts downwards, and he lays it on Dean's shoulder as he clings there. If he could see the confusion and panic on Dean's face, he might enjoy it. As it is, Castiel starts talking to Dean. "Army ants have no home, did you know that? 

"No home base. They travel together in a line, with scouts that look for food in front of them. Even deadly spiders try to hide when they see one, because there is simply no fighting the horde that comes after. When they find a place that they are going to stay for a while, they.. what's the term. Bivoac. yes. Bivouac. They make a home.. a temporary home, out of themselves. Ants join limbs to create a honeycomb.. a home for the other ants, made of their family. When they leave, the joined ants simply let go, and everyone moves on. You and Sam always make me think of the jungle. I followed a family of ants for days, before I found the bees. " 

Castiel gets off Dean for only a moment. Dean's eyes are closed, and he's sweating. When he gets back on Dean, Castiel very gently starts to rock his hips back and forth, forcing a low noise from Dean's throat. Legs wrapped around Dean and the legs of the chair, he balances there as he ties off his arm and takes more blood. Dean opens his eyes and watches languidly, almost hungrily. Castiel brushes his lips against Dean's ear, then down to his jaw, nudging his head sideways. There, he kisses and licks, and bites, injecting Dean with his blood so very slowly. Dean lets out a long sigh. 

"You and Sam, you are like those ants, marching forward, devouring everything in your wake. And the rest of us... we link arms and make you a home. You walk on us, you use us for comfort and respite... and then you march on forward again. And we... we go with you. " 

Castiel leans back to look in Dean's eyes. Dean's eyes are green and unfocused. The two of them rock their hips together for a long time, staring into each other's eyes wordlessly. 

He stays where he is. If Dean gets uncomfortable, he never voices it. Castiel and Dean talk, deep into the night. Every hour, Castiel draws his own blood, and kisses his way down Dean's neck to inject it. Eventually Dean just weeps, begging him to stop. He isn't worth it. Castiel shouldn't waste his time, his blood on Dean. The things he's done. 

Castiel drags it out of him, bit by bit, death by death. He makes Dean confess to every kill, every beatdown, every person he's tortured. Dean obeys him, though it takes him too long to give it up, and he can hear Castiel drifting. 

They go past 8 hours. They head into 9, and Castiel is quietly lying on him. The near constant erection he'd had since climbing on top of Dean is gone, and Dean can hear him whispering to himself. His body is heavy, and nearly motionless. 

"Cas. " Dean nudges at him with his chin. "Cas!" his voice is sharp, commanding. It jolts Castiel awake, and he teeters upright, staring at Dean with overbright eyes. For a moment, he doesn't seem to know Dean, and then he smiles. 

"I realized it, Dean. I know the _secret_. " His hands roam over Dean's face, memorizing every feature. "I didn't fall for you, Dean. I dove. I jumped face first into you, and never looked back. " Castiel's thumbs rub over Dean's lips, his chin. "That's why my Father returned me to life. I did not lose power when I became human. I gained love. I chose.. I chose love. He returned me to you. I know I can never make up for what I've done..but accept that I love you. " 

Dean shakes his head, tears falling from his eyes, "Cas, no. You don't have anything to .. you've made up for that, long ago. Stop, please, don't do this any more. We'll find another way. " Castiel's eyes crinkle at that, and he lets out a contented sigh. 

He fumbles his phone from his pocket, and presses at it vaguely. Dean can hear it ringing. Seemingly satisfied with that, Castiel falls forward onto Dean, with his face on Dean's shoulder. Dean can't make out the sounds of whoever it is Castiel's called, so he hazards a guess, and screams Sam's name. 

The barn door opens, and the distinctively short shape of Crowley is framed in the light coming from beyond it. "Afraid not, kitten. But, if it's any consolation, I'm sure Moose will come bursting in, guns blazing, just a hair too late. " Crowley has a short dark haired demon with him, carrying a bowl. She seems skittish of Dean, jumping out of her skin when he snarls at her. Crowley makes a tsking noise, and shoves her forward. She starts placing candles and objects in a circle around Dean. 

Castiel stirs weakly, and Dean begins to hyperventilate. "Crowley, you need to get him to a hospital. Right now. I will do whatever you want. Crowley.." he stares as the King of Hell comes close and crouches in front of Dean to look at Castiel. 

Crowley and Castiel share a long look. Crowley's eyes are wet, but he waits until Castiel speaks. "This is what I want. Please. I can't .. my body isn't working any more.." He closes his eyes again, his breath uneven and rattling in the back of his throat. 

Dean screams. Pleading, threatening, sheer noise, none of it makes any difference. He shreds his wrists and nearly breaks his arms trying to get out of his restraints as he watches Crowley take the last syringe of Castiel's blood and force Dean's neck to the side to finish the job. He screams until he loses his voice, feeling Castiel's blood and his own grief finishing the change from demon to human. 

"You weren't a common demon," Crowley's voice fills the barn, with an undercurrent. Chanting.. the other demon is chanting. " you were too strong, and you needed more blood than your average demon for this.. _procedure_ to work. Castiel figured that he could live long enough. Just enough, you see. So delicate. If he dies before she's done... " 

Castiel holds on. The words of Becky's spell strip the Mark from Dean's arm. The separation is like fire through his body, and he panics, threatening Crowley again, promising him, _promising him_.. " I will hunt you and END you, don't, Crowley, DON'T!" He surges forward, helpless rage filling him. Crowley holds Castiel's arm to Dean's, the mark rolling off. Crowley gently lowers Castiel's body to the floor, and they both watch him die. Crowley closes his eyes gently, and places the First Blade on his chest, in his hand. 

Heaven's blue eclipsed by black. 

Sam bursts through the door, Garth in tow. 

He finds Dean in the barn, wrung out and hollow eyed. 

Castiel and Crowley are long gone. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is missing something.

At first, Sam makes him rest. Dean is forced to comply; his body is run down and his brain feels as if it's in a fog. He's unable to sleep properly, and Sam drugs him without remorse, forcing a 24 hour period of sleep and vague shuffling to and from the bathroom. He's only really able to get away with it once: Dean threatens to stop eating entirely if he does it again. Days melt into nights into weeks. One morning Sam comes into the kitchen to see Dean with the laptop looking at a newspaper's website with an intense look in his eyes. He takes his cup of coffee with him to pack the duffel bags wordlessly. 

They hunt. Dean rarely speaks, unless it's about the case at hand. It doesn't seem to matter. Sam and Dean fall into an instinctual pattern, moving around each other and through space with an uncanny awareness that rarely fails. At night Sam can hear his brother call out for the angel in his sleep; anguished cries that turn into desperate weeping. In the morning, Sam will occasionally take his life into his own hands and mention the dreams. Although this never ends well, Sam is much too stubborn to give up on it entirely. He tries to bring up the silver bullet that Dean wears around his neck. He wears it day and night, like the amulet. Dean shuts him down with a glare and a change of subject, every time. It begins to piss Sam off. 

Dean hunts with a single minded obsession. His attention is laser focused, and he forgets to eat or sleep in the pursuit of... well, whatever it is that he's looking for. Peace, relief, atonement. This means, though, that when there is a lull, Dean throws himself into hedonism. He's always been a guy of extremes, Sam muses while packing a magnificently drunk brother into the Impala one night. He never just quietly hurts. He has to destroy himself with pleasure or violence. 

California is a balm to them both. They finish off a major haunting in San Francisco, and then with nothing to do, set off down 101, down the length of the state like a caress down the thigh of a lover, taking in everything along the way. It takes them days, even though they could make the drive in about 7 hours. As soon as they hit the coast, Dean is mesmerized by the ocean, and they stop at every place they can. They stay in Santa Barbara for a few days, and them move to Santa Monica. They take a hotel near the ocean and Dean begins scanning the newspapers again. 

Somehow, they don't go anywhere. Days turn into weeks, and Sam gets a temporary job in a bar. Every sunset, Dean goes to the pier. After a month has passed, Sam pays a landlord a bundle of cash, and they move into an apartment. They sleep on the floor in sleeping bags, but neither of them mind. Dean hustles to bring in cash, Sam works. Neither of them talk about this, even though Sam is clearly itching to. Dean is so angry. Every day he is consumed by rage, and it makes him tired and strung out. He's stopped talking to Sam, he's stopped living. He isn't sure what he's looking for every evening when he watches the sky bleed out into night, but he knows he's waiting. He begins secretly breaking the salt lines across the doors and windows at night. He drinks himself into a stupor any night when he isn't hustling to pay for living expenses, or aimlessly watching the lights on the Ferris Wheel. When he sleeps, he dreams of the pier, he dreams of blue eyes that turn to black. 

Sunset on the eighth Saturday that they have stayed near the ocean, Dean sees him. He's leaning on his arms against the pier, his back and legs and ass relaxed and graceful as he watches the colors over the water. His hair is as tousled as ever, and he has the ghost of a smile on his face. The smile gets deeper as Dean hovers behind him, but he doesn't move. They watch the sun disappear in silence together, and when it is too dark to do anything but look at the lights on the Ferris Wheel, he turns around aims the smile at Dean. His eyes are blue, and it spears Dean through the heart, because he knows it is a lie. 

He moves forward anyway, presses himself against Castiel, pushing him back against the railing. He goes easily, giving way to Dean's insistence, his head tilted back, eyes bright, body welcoming. Dean devours his mouth without asking, shaking against the Knight of Hell, pushy possessive hands impatient with clothing. Castiel gives his kiss easily, tilts his hips to grind against Dean, smiling into him, his skin hot and smooth. Dean pulls back, and closes his eyes. 

" Crowley. " Dean's voice is rough with emotion, his body a line of restrained violence. Behind him, he can hear the King of Hell chuckle. 

"Hello, cupcake. I see you've been enjoying my property." Crowley places his hands on Dean's hips, one thumb tracing back and forth idly. 

Dean wants to jerk away violently. He wants to put his fist through Crowley's face, to pin him to the pier and slit his throat with Ruby's knife. Instead he rests his forehead against Castiel's and makes a low desperate noise in the back of this throat. 

Castiel runs his hands over Dean's face soothingly. He whispers to him, his voice thick and too familiar. "Dean, please. Come with us. Just for tonight, if you want. I miss you. We.. we miss you. " 

In the other ear, Crowley's voice purrs, "Come on, love. You know you want this. Everything's been so damn empty, hasn't it? Hunt after hunt, so routine. Something's been missing. " Dean can feel Crowley's lips against his neck, just behind his ear. He shudders against his will, and spins around, rage sparking up inside him again. 

Dean tries to attack Crowley, drawing his arm back for a blow, but Castiel has him first, calmly pinning both of Dean's arms behind him with massive strength. Dean struggles, and Castiel holds on. Crowley watches him impassively, keeping eye contact until Dean sags back against Castiel, panting and lowering his eyes. 

Sam, travelling the pier looking to drag his drunk brother home yet again, sees them just before they disappear; Castiel restraining Dean easily, and Dean baring his throat for the King of Hell, somehow submissive while he holds a snarl on his lips. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me and saying such great things. I will keep writing, and I hope that you guys can like that stuff too.

Crowley returns Dean sooner than he'd like. He hasn't discovered a limit to Dean's endurance yet, but Crowley figures that they have time to do this again once Sam has been placated. Returning Dean is honestly self preservation, because Sam is unstoppable and Crowley actually does have things he'd like to get done other than run from Dean's brother. Castiel is pouty about it, but that comes with perks too; he can be terribly amusing while he's petulant.

Separating Castiel and Dean turns out to be more difficult that he had imagined. In the end, he drops them both off about a day's drive from the bunker, and calls Sam to come and get them. Something about the speed in which they lock him out of their hotel room suggests to him that they might not get around to calling Moose in for a while, and the thought of the look on his face when he interrupts them is priceless. Well, you have to get your laughs in when you can, right?

Crowley leaves long before Sam gets there, because "sooner than he'd like" means almost an entire year. Sam's almost manic about it, and the phone call goes just about as well as he'd thought. He makes a quick stop before he goes, however. He always keeps his promises. 

*****

Sam threatens Crowley while he's throwing on a jacket and sliding into the driver's seat. He randomly calls Dean as he drives, courting actual arrest with the speeds he travels down the highway. He stops calling when Dean's voice mail fills up. He spends the rest of the drive talking to himself, and cursing everyone involved in this fiasco, especially himself. Sam knows that he should have left this alone, he's stayed awake nights running the fight between he and his brother in his head.. how Sam should leave him to rot, how he wasn't worth Castiel's sacrifice. He isn't sure what the fuck is going on, but the look on his brother's face as they left was an interesting combination of looks he's seen before; resignation, lust, and the special look he gets when he is faced with remembering hell itself, and who he was in it.

Pulling into the parking lot, he can see a woman standing there, as Crowley promised. The demon is wearing a maid, and looks deeply bored. Sam pulls up next to her, and gets out of the car very slowly, an angel blade gripped tightly in one hand. The demon drops the envelope she's holding, and smokes out before Sam can even make it around the car.He opens the envelope cautiously, sliding out a couple of pictures. Crowley had promised him an explanation, but this is not at all what he'd expected. The first few want to make him scrub his eyes raw with bleach immediately. Sifting through them, he can only cough out "Flexible..Oh.. God.. that's Cas. " He's seen his brother with some women before and that was bad enough, but .. well he's not at all confused about what is going on now, that's for sure. He drops those, then realizes he doesn't want them left there, and has to pick them up again. Gingerly. As he does, one picture falls out of the rest of the pile and it makes him pause. He straightens slowly, running a finger over his brother's face. It's a picture of Dean and Castiel sitting at a picnic table, laughing. He hasn't seen that look on Dean's face in years; an unreserved laugh that includes his eyes, that takes over his whole body. Their hands are entwined over the table. Sam leans back against the car, heavily. Well... fuck.

Left inside the envelope is a letter and the weird silver bullet that Dean's been wearing on a chain. Up close though, he can see that it's not a bullet, it's a tube, with a screw top. He opens it to reveal a glass vial with some glowing Grace swirling inside it. Sam gently replaces it, and opens the letter. 

> _Samantha: The grace isn't his, but Dean insisted on carrying it all the same. What can I say, he's sentimental. Grace closed heaven, I bet it can open it again. The ghost of a certain prophet should probably go home, what do you think? Give me a few before you start with the summoning. Go easy on the boy, he's in love with your brother. No accounting for taste. -C_

Sam slips the chain over his head, and looks around the motel court. Dean's door is easy to find. He watches his brother's silhouette turn off the light, and he watches the dark motel room door for a long time after that.

*****

Dean is up with the sun again, and thirsty. After three days in this room, he knows the contents of the vending machines by heart, but he thinks he can live with orange soda another morning. Cas is a motionless lump of blankets and filthy sheets behind him as he eases the door open. Even this early, his reflexes are good enough to catch the objects that fall to the ground as the door swings open. Someone had wedged a set of keys in the doorjamb, and they look familiar. Swallowing over the lump in his throat, he turns them over, recognizing the Impala's keys instantly, and next to it...a copy of the key to the bunker. It looks like Sam's cast it himself in silver. It hangs off the car's keys like a charm. He looks up, scanning around the parking lot. 

She's there, just off to the side, and he knows suddenly that Sam's been there all night, watching his door. The air feels like syrup, and the ground tilts a little as he walks over, half expecting to see him asleep in the back. He isn't there. He isn't there, but on the driver's seat is a phone. 

The phone is new, with one number: Sam. 

Dean smiles down at it. In his own time, then. Sam is giving him the time to come home in his own time. A coiled serpent of doubt and shame uncoils itself from his guts and dissipates. He lets out a laugh, and slips into Baby, firing her up for the first time in too long. So many roads, and enough time now. He's going to take Cas to see... everything. 

*****

Sam sits in a diner, about 10 miles from nowhere, drawing circles in newspaper articles. When his phone rings, he absently picks it up. For the first time in too long his face cracks into a smile, worry and fear and loneliness falling from it like a broken mask. 

"Hey," He grins into the phone, "Hey, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise timestamps of this, later. There is so much time with our hellish threesome to explore. And what has Sam been doing?


End file.
